


Fandom Imagines

by moose_misses_sweets



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Self-Insert, THEYRE ALL ANGSTY IM SORRY, WAZZUP, dont mind me, honestly some of these are probably going to be awful, just chilling out in the tags, just me trying to write, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-06-20 09:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15531021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moose_misses_sweets/pseuds/moose_misses_sweets
Summary: requests OPEN! a collection of random imagines/one-shots based on different fandoms.





	1. Info

✧Hiya! Welcome to my book of fandom imagines and one-shots. Here's a couple guidelines and some information to start off!✧

✧Feel free to comment any ideas you have! I have a few prompts that I'll be basing the first few entries off of, but I would love to write some of your ideas. Currently accepting requests from these fandoms!

   ･Sherlock

   ･Marvel Cinematic Universe

   ･Daredevil

   ･Star Trek (reboot movies)

   ･X-Men

   ･more TBD

✧There will be no update schedule. I'll post when I'm inspired or when I have a request!

✧I will NOT do smut, lemons, etc. I just don't feel comfortable writing it. There will, however, be lots of fluff and cuteness. Some may be heavier topics, or sad, or angsty, whatever I'm feeling. TWs in notes at beginning of stories.

✧I am NOT a perfect writer by any means. I apologize in advance if anybody seems out of character, as this is my first time attempting to write this sort of thing!

✧As always, please keep your comments kind. I do take criticism, as long as it's constructive and not demeaning in any way! Comment if you enjoy, and follow me for updates!


	2. Pain Killer (Sherlock, John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)  
> Pairing: none (y'all are just friendos)  
> Prompt: none  
> Trigger warnings: eating disorder, accidental overdose  
> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

_BRRRRRRING! BRRRRRRING!_

The alarm clock on the side table blares right into your ear, pulling you from a thought. You hadn’t been sleeping, but the interruption was certainly unwelcome. You slam a hand onto the top of the clock to shut it off and bury your face in the pillows with a groan.

“Anna?” A voice drifts through your door accompanied by three quiet taps on the wood. “Breakfast is ready.”

You roll over to look up at the ceiling and call back drowsily, “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Give me a few minutes.”

“Alright, deary. The boys are waiting for you.”

You suck in a deep breath and crawl out from the warmth of your bed with a small moan of regret. The covers call your name but you resist the temptation to burrow into them. As you pull on a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt, you run through the day’s schedule in your head.

Breakfast with Sherlock and John. Bacon and eggs, by the smell of it. They always insist on waiting for you even though they noticed you hardly ever ate breakfast. In fact, you barely ate at all, but they were often not around for lunch or dinner.

Check in with Mom. Ever since your dad passed a few years back, she misses having your company. You are an only child and thus the poor woman’s only tether left in the world. A daily phone call, even for a few minutes, proved to lift her spirits. And she is so concerned about you, now that you were off on your own… or rather, in the company of two strange men.

In the middle of your thoughts, your stomach interrupts rudely. Against your best efforts, your body’s needs outmatch your superior skill of pushing away the ache of hunger. You try to remember the last time you ate a proper meal but you can't seem to recall.

Accompanied by the rumbling of your stomach comes a pounding headache. You clench your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut to push it away, but it doesn’t seem to relent. You stumble out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, where you grasp at the handles of the medicine cabinet. Prying it open, you locate a bottle of painkillers and choke down a couple.

You wait for the ache to recede and the painkillers to take effect, which ends up only taking a few minutes. How many pills had you taken? Hm, well, you feel better anyway, so it doesn’t seem to matter.

You sigh and check your reflection in the mirror. Wipe away yesterday’s mascara. Cover the bags under your eyes with a bit of concealer. Smile a bit, feeling refreshed and pain-free.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. “You alright in there, dear? The boys are getting a bit fidgety.”

Instead of responding, you waltz over to the door with a new spring in your step. You pull the door open and flash a friendly smile to the old landlady. “Best not to let them wait too long, eh, Mrs. Hudson?” You wink and slide past her toward the kitchen.

John is sitting in his chair, today’s newspaper in hand. Sherlock is pacing anxiously around the flat.

“Morning John, Sherlock,” you nod to each man as you pour yourself a cup of tea from the kettle.

“Morning, Anna,” John replies with a slight smile, looking up from the paper.

Sherlock merely grunts and sits down on his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest impatiently.

Mrs. Hudson flutters about, delivering plates of food to each of the boys and setting a smaller one down on the couch for you. You nod to her gratefully and sit down. The boys have already begun to scarf down their breakfasts, but you simply pick at your pile of scrambled eggs with a fork. After a few moments, you set the plate back down and pick up your cup of tea. You sip from it slowly, if only to make it seem as though you are occupied with thought.

Sherlock sees through the façade quickly but says nothing, instead just quirking an eyebrow and continuing to eat.

John, uncomfortable with the silence, folds his paper and turns his head toward you. “How did you sleep, Anna?”

“Fine, thank you,” you lie easily, taking another sip of tea.

Sherlock grunts again but says nothing.

You flash him a look of distaste over the lip of your mug. “Have something to say, Holmes?”

Sherlock purses his lips and puts down his now empty plate on a nearby table. “You’ve lost weight,” he says simply, not meeting your eyes.

“Yeah, so?” you choke out nervously, subconsciously feeling your ribs underneath your shirt. They poke through just a bit, but you can still find the places where your fat settles in between them.

You’ve always struggled with your body image. As a teenager in high school, you’d been teased for your weight, even if your doctor told you that you were perfectly healthy for your age. You just happened to lose your baby fat a little late, which led to a bit of flab around your face and stomach. Still, you felt like you needed to change to fit in. Thus began a vicious cycle of eating problems.

It started with the purging. You’d eat enough to feel full, and then you’d force yourself to throw it up. But that was never particularly pleasant to you.

So, you switched tactics when you got into college. You started by eating just enough to satisfy your body. Then when nothing seemed to change, you began to work out aggressively. Hours and hours of cardio to tone your muscle without looking too bulky. Then you ate less and less, teaching your body and your mind to be content with what little you consumed. To this day, you ate very little and exercised at every chance you got.

Sherlock seems to think for a moment before looking up at you. “You don’t purge anymore, do you?”

You choke on your sip of tea and cough for a few moments, struggling to catch your breath. “Excuse me?” you splutter eventually. Your headache is coming back in full swing, although you’re not sure if it's from hunger now or simply from the gravity of the conversation.

“Oh, it’s quite easy to deduce, you simply need to look at-”

John clears his throat and sets his own plate down. He’d been silent until now, watching the short exchange with interest. “Sherlock, I think that’s enough.” He looks at the consulting detective pointedly.

Sherlock seems to get the message and puts his hands under his chin in a steeple formation without another word.

“Anna,” John starts slowly, deliberately, “would you like to talk?”

“Not particularly, no,” you respond in a clipped tone. Your head is pounding and you grit your teeth against the pain.

John nods and looks back over at Sherlock. The detective is sitting very still with his eyes closed.

You let out a breath through clenched teeth and set down your mug with caution. Your hands are shaking, although now it could be due to any number of things. Anxiety? Hunger? The pills you downed earlier? Who knows?

You steel yourself to stand, gripping the edges of the couch. You push off unsteadily, but it seems your legs have turned to Jell-O. Your knees buckle and you crumple to the floor, just a few inches shy of the couch.

There is a dull ringing in your ears, blocking out a majority of the other sound. You can faintly make out a loud voice, but the words are indistinguishable. Your vision goes blurry as someone steps into your line of sight. Vaguely, you can tell that something or someone is tapping your cheek.

Your eyelids flutter and there’s a sort of pull from the back of your mind, telling you to sink into unconsciousness. You almost want to give in, until the ringing in your ears dissipates a little and you can make out the sounds around you.

“Come on, Anna, keep your eyes open,” John’s voice is calm and insistent close to your ear.

“She’s nearly overdosed on painkillers, John,” Sherlock’s low baritone voice grumbles from farther away, still a bit muffled. “Constricted pupils, depressed breathing, and…”

You let out a moan and begin to heave. John rolls you over onto your side so you don’t suffocate.

“Vomiting,” Sherlock finishes.

John begins to rub small circles on your back, murmuring softly, “There you go, let it out. Just breathe, Anna.”

You cough and feel the bile burning the back of your throat. Your stomach is nearly empty, so you’ve only managed to expel some acid and the painkillers, thankfully.

John moves you into the recovery position so he can retrieve his first aid kit.

Your eyelids have suddenly become very heavy. The pounding in your head has diminished to a feeling of lightheadedness. The ringing in your ears has nearly stopped and you can see more clearly, although your eyes are nearly closed.

John returns quickly, kit in hand, and kneels down next to your prone form. He conducts a quick examination before administering an anti-opioid, telling you every now and then to keep your eyes open. You do so with some difficulty, regardless of the fact that your mind is racing.

You must look like such an idiot right now. Nearly unconscious on the floor from a close call with painkillers, of all things. You let out a little groan at your stupidity.

“Anna, are you in pain?” John questions, concern creeping into his voice.

You manage to shake your head slightly before croaking out a soft “no.” Well, that's kind of a lie. Your head and stomach are aching, although not enough to be too worried about.

Sherlock, who has been mostly silent, finally speaks up. “I think it would be advantageous to move her to the couch, John. She might be more comfortable there and it would be easier to look after her.”

John seems to agree because all of a sudden, two pairs of hands are lifting you and setting you down on the cushions with ease. You move around a bit to be more comfortable and finally let your eyes fall closed. John doesn’t protest so you slip into unconsciousness.

You wake to the sound of rain tapping lightly on the windows. The flat is quiet, which leads you to believe that the boys are out on a case. However, your eyes tell you otherwise; both the consulting detective and his blogger are resting lazily in their respective chairs, sipping tea and murmuring softly.

You purposefully yawn and stretch, hoping the movement will alert them to your consciousness. John is at your side in an instant, checking your blood pressure and heart rate; Sherlock remains seated, his eyes trained on your face in concentration.

When John has finished checking you out and informs you that most of the drugs are out of your system, you attempt to sit up. John pushes you back down gently on the shoulder, saying, “Woah there. You’re probably still going to be a bit nauseous. Take it easy, alright?”

Now that he’s mentioned it, you notice the feeling of lightheadedness. You settle back into the couch, eyes passing from John to Sherlock in worry. They’ve not said much, which unnerves you. It’s unlike either of them to be so quiet after such a conundrum.

As if he can read your thoughts, Sherlock stands and waltzes over to the side of the couch, speaking as he goes. “You’ve not been eating enough for your body weight. Normally the dosage of painkillers you took would give someone your age a severe headache, but nothing extreme. Due to your low body mass and already damaged digestive system, the drugs had a much more…” he pauses and lets his eyes wander over your prone form, “adverse reaction. I suggest you begin a strict diet to recuperate. John will help.”

At this, your jaw drops. You’d figured someone would mention it sooner or later, but not that they’d actually care. Your eyes meet Sherlock’s and he gives you a tight-lipped smile before returning to his chair.

“As much as I hate to admit it,” John begins, “Sherlock is right. I don’t care why you’re doing this to yourself, but any reason isn’t a good one. We care about you, Anna, and we aren’t going to let you slowly kill yourself. I’m willing to help you recover from this, but only if you agree to try. I won’t waste my time if you aren’t going to try to get better.”

You can’t meet his eyes. You’ve always known that this is a serious problem but you’ve never wanted to face it head-on. You felt even worse about getting John and Sherlock involved, felt like you were burdening them somehow.

But the look in John’s eyes and the tiny smile that Sherlock flashes at you are enough to change your mind. Finally, you respond quietly, “Okay. I’ll try.”

John smiles and holds your hand in his own, giving it a light squeeze of reassurance. “It will be a long and difficult task, but we’ll help you through it. You don’t have to worry about suffering alone. Oh, and…” John chuckles. “If you ever need any painkillers, I’ll dose them out to you. Just in case.”

* * *

 


	3. Through Your Fear and Sorrow (Tony Stark x Child!Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> Fandom: Marvel  
> Pairing: Tony Stark x Child!Reader  
> Prompt: Hey! May I request a Tony Stark/Child!Reader? I recently found out that RDJ came out with a few songs in 2004 and I thought it would be super cute if Tony would sing to his child to help them sleep. Please and thank you! :)  
> Trigger warnings: none (? nightmares maybe) but extra fluff  
> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> This isn't Robert's original song, but he did do a cover of it. You can find it on the interwebs :P Also, sorry this is a bit later than I promised, I've just started school again so I'm trying to work out scheduling and such! Thanks for your patience :)  
> 

“Night, pumpkin.” Tony plants a kiss on your head softly as he pulls the covers up around you.

“Night, Dad,” you reply, stifling a yawn as you snuggle deeper into the warmth of the blankets.

When your father has left the room, you fall asleep quickly. You sleep peacefully for a few hours, having little dreams that bring you nothing but happiness and serenity. Then, out of the blue, a nightmare strikes your mind. You wake with a small cry, stifled by the heat of your blankets.

You look around the darkened room and your mind tricks you. The coat hanger is a tall man watching you from the corner, the wind from outside is a wolf howling and scratching at your window. The shadows of the trees are cast by the light of the full moon, long fingers creeping toward your bed to grab you and pull you away.

You cry out again, louder this time. Tony stumbles into the room, looking around fearfully. “Dad,” you croak out, recognizing his silhouette against the hallway lights.

Tony lets out a sigh of relief and comes closer to your bed, sitting on the edge. “Hey, pumpkin. You alright?”

You shake your head wearily, hot tears making their way down your cheeks. “Nightmare.”

He pulls you closer to him, murmuring, “Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” He rocks you gently, caressing your head and running his fingers through your hair.

Your tears subside, leaving you sniffling into Tony’s chest. “Hey, Dad,” you start quietly, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Can you… sing to me?”

Tony puts his hands on your shoulders and looks you in the eyes. “Sure, pumpkin. What would you like me to sing to you?”

You shrug and nestle back into the warmth of his chest, hearing his heartbeat. “I don’t care. Anything.”

Tony’s voice rumbles against your ear as he sings, a growly baritone. The words lull you into a trance-like state, but you do not sleep.

_Smile, though your heart is aching_

_Smile even though it’s breaking_

_When there are clouds in the sky_

_You’ll get by_

_If you smile_

_Through your fear and sorrow_

He leans down and sings into your hair, kissing you softly between each line.

_Smile, and maybe tomorrow_

_You’ll see the sun come shining through_

_For you_

Tony hears your breathing become slow and rhythmic. He continues to sing as he lies you down, tucking the covers in around you.

_Light up your face with gladness_

_Hide every trace of sadness_

_Although a tear_

_May be ever so near_

_That’s the time you must keep on trying_

Tony doesn’t move from the edge of your bed until he sees your eyelids start to flutter, showing that you’re dreaming. When he knows that it’s not a nightmare, he plants another kiss on your forehead and stands, heading for the door.

_Smile, what’s the use of crying_

_You’ll find that life is still worthwhile_

_If you just smile_

Tony sings the words as he watches your sleeping form from the doorway. He ends the song in nearly a whisper, a faint smile dancing across his lips. He’d make sure that nothing scared you tonight, or any night. He’d protect you. He’d make you smile.


	4. Just Pretend (Dean Winchester x Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> Fandom: Supernatural  
> Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader  
> Prompt: Hey could you do a Dean Winchester/Reader where they have to fake date for a case or something, but then they actually fall in love? If you don’t want to do it don’t feel like you have to because someone requested it :)  
> Trigger warnings: language  
> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> This is actual TRASH but I felt bad for not getting this prompt done sooner. So here it is!

“God, this is fucking tight.”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “Watch it; someone might hear you.”

You tugged at the hem of your dress again. It was a black body-con dress with lace running down one side. You had to admit; it was cute. It was just really fucking uncomfortable.

Dean was decked out in a black suit and matching tie, looking quite dapper if you said so yourself. Even with the little bit of stubble smattered on his chin, he still managed to come off as business-like.

“Screw you, Winchester,” you mumbled, shoving a curl of hair behind your ear and giving up on the dress. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He held out his arm for you and you took it without hesitation, knowing that you’d stumble with your heels on. Whoever invented heels was a dumbass.

The two of you walked inside the conference hall, trying to look less like a pair of hunters and more like the high-level CEOs you were supposed to be impersonating. You didn’t have much experience with this sort of thing, but Dean certainly did. He was the best person for the job (a Jefferson starship had somehow managed to sneak right under their noses and become a co-owner of Google).

You strolled inside and found a banquet table with your aliases on it. You sat down together, casting Dean a nervous glance as you did so. He flashed you a quick hopeful smile.

A few important-looking people came over to greet you, politely offering to dance. You declined most of them, already feeling the pain radiating in your ankles. Plus, you were on a mission. There was no time for messing around.

The pair of you had been making small talk for a few minutes when the tinkling of a fork on a glass filled the hall. You looked up to see the Jefferson starship staring you in the face.

He seemed a pleasant man, but you knew that looks were deceiving, especially in this line of work.

Dean elbowed you and nodded toward the man. _That’s him,_ he mouthed to you as the man began to say something about incremental adjustments to corporate policy, along with a string of very large numbers.

The speech went on for a few minutes, then the man thanked everyone for coming and the light chatter in the hall picked up again. You watched as the starship made his way through a side door and out of the hall.

Dean was already standing up when you turned to look for instruction. You followed his lead as he walked at a steady, yet quick, pace toward the door.

Just as you were about to reach the door, the starship came back out. Dean froze, surprised.

You could see the starship turning toward you, looking suspicious, and you did the first thing you could think of. You grabbed Dean’s arm, whirled him around, exclaimed, “There you are!” and planted a kiss on his lips.

For a moment, Dean was still as stone. Then, as if realizing what your plan was, he leaned into the kiss and wrapped his arms around you. He broke the kiss first, thanking you with a quick wink. “Sorry, love,” he improvised, “Got caught up with an old friend.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw the starship turn and continue walking toward his table. “Disaster averted,” you murmured to Dean as you linked arms and went away to hatch a new plan for killing the starship.

_One decapitation later…_

You had to admit: kissing Dean was pretty nice. But you’d never tell him that. He could never seem to keep a girl, even if she was an excellent hunter like yourself.

Plus, you’d done what needed to be done to save the case. It wasn’t like it would ever happen again.

Dean surprised you on the way home with one small sentence. “You’re a great kisser.”

You nearly choked on air. “What?” you stumbled over the word.

Dean turned to look at you.

“Eyes on the road, dumbass,” you snapped.

He chuckled and looked back to the road. “Just saying,” he started, “I wouldn’t mind kissing you like that again.”

You snorted. “In your dreams, Winchester.”

But really, you wouldn’t mind either.


	5. Baby Blue (Daredevil x Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> Fandom: Daredevil  
> Pairing: Daredevil (Matt Murdock) x Reader  
> Prompt: none  
> Trigger warnings: depression, self-harm, referenced suicide attempt, panic/anxiety attack (if you squint), mild language  
> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> I've been really interested in synesthesia lately, so this is just a little work to explore how I can write characters with synesthesia! My apologies if anything is inaccurate; I do know that this is not necessarily how chromesthesia works, but I wanted to add a little drama.

You wrap your arms around your torso tighter as you try to fight away the cold chilling your skin. The rain pelts against you in icy sheets and splashes to the pavement in a cacophonous symphony of droplets. You feel cold.

Not just physically, but emotionally. Your mind has given up on the idea that things would get better.

You don't know why you are so cold. Physically, it is obvious. No jacket, no umbrella. You'd left your apartment hours ago. That was before it had started raining and before the sun had set in a blaze of red-orange on the horizon. You hadn't thought of the possibility that you might be out for a while. Now it seemed only logical. Why would you want to go back there? Back where the tear-stained tissues littered the floor of your bedroom like trash on the beach, blue and black. Back where the blade still lay on the counter, orange and black. Back where the sink still carried traces of your self-torture, all red and hurt and pain and black. Everything was black. Everywhere, black. Black. Black.

It used to be all different colors. Mom's voice was green, but not grass green; no, mama was pine tree green. Dad's laugh was pink, even when he didn't like to hear it. The sizzling of bacon each morning was yellow. The wind through the trees on the farm back at your real home, that was all misty grey and foggy white.

You hold your arms a little closer to your chest, as if just the thought of the wind will blow all your broken pieces away. The rain is orange and black. Black. Everything is black now.

You pick up your chin a bit as you pass by a bar, full to nearly capacity with bikers and businessmen alike; hell, probably some murderers too. A few weeks ago, it would have been a rainbow, but everything is black now.

You feel cold again, in your mind. The noise and color of the bar fade and you look up at the rooftops as you pass by them. Each one the exact same, all black. Until...

There's a figure crouching down on one of the roofs; you can hear how to wind breaks around the silhouette. There's a little baby blue amid all the black. Just the sight of it makes you feel a little warmer. You pause in your tracks, the rain still hitting your bare arms and bouncing to the sidewalk. The figure, although completely still, seems to freeze even more as you look up. Then, there is the slightest tilt of a head and you can make out the silhouette of a pair of horns.

You've barely let out a gasp when the figure disappears. You wonder if you're hallucinating (wouldn't doubt it; how long has it been since you last slept?) and continue walking down the sidewalk.

Not two steps later and a firm hand lands on your shoulder. You don't scream or make any indication that you are scared, lest this stranger be holding a knife to your back.

"I don't have any money," you start, keeping your voice steady even with your heart pounding in your ears, "and if you're looking for a good time, I can promise you, you're going to want someone else."

"I don't want either of those things," a deep, baby blue voice answers you above the sound of the rain.

You whirl around to face the man, trying to hide the pain you still feel inside with a look of astonishment. "Well I'll be damned," you murmur, keeping up with the "omg it's Daredevil wow omg like woah" act.

The devil stares down at you (curse you, short genes!) and tilts his head as if he's listening for something. "Are you alright?" he says finally, placing his hand back on your shoulder.

You shrug it off quickly, not wanting to get too attached to the warmth it gives you. The world goes to black again. "Fine," you respond, your voice even, having grown used to the question.

The devil tips his head again and his lip quivers for just a moment. A drop of rain rolls down to the corner of his mouth. "Do you want to talk about it?" he says quietly.

The baby blue words catch you by surprise.

"Um, no," you stammer, swallowing thickly. "Thank you though." You try to tear your shoulder from his grip but he holds fast.

"I just want to help," the devil murmurs, just loud enough over the rain. "I don't think you should be alone right now."

You look up at him, not quite meeting his eyes under the mask, but looking at the raindrops collecting on the fabric on his cheek.

The sound of the bar drifts back to your ears: a glass shattering, a pause in the music, a fist making hard contact with a jaw. You flinch a little. The sounds are all black.

The devil notices your subtle movement and squeezes your shoulder gently. "I know a place we can talk. Away from all this noise."

His gloved hand slips down your arm to grasp your own hand. He turns and goes to lead you toward the fire escape of the building you saw him on moments before. After a moment's hesitation, you follow him. His hand is warm, even through the gloves and the rain.

*

The two of you sit on the edge of the rooftop, your legs dangling over the side. The rain has picked up a bit now, accompanied every now and then by a streak of lightning and a crash of thunder. The world is so black.

You don't say anything. The devil seems to be waiting for you, though, so eventually, you start to speak. "Why do you want to help me?" is all you can think to say. You stare down at the sidewalk as you wait for an answer. You're not very far from the ground, but there's something about all of the blackness that makes it seem as though you're miles away.

"I could sense that you were troubled," the devil replies, looking past your face and out to the horizon. He chuckles, not baby blue but more ocean-like. "Call it a sixth sense."

You return with a short laugh. "I have one of those too."

He tilts his head, intrigued. "Really?"

You nod. "Yeah, I guess you could call it that. It's called chromesthesia. Basically, whenever I hear something, I see it as a color."

The devil is silent for a moment. Thunder crashes in the distance. You find yourself staring at the seam where his mask ends and meets his cheek. What color are his eyes? Are they baby blue too?

"What color is the rain?" He whispers suddenly.

The question takes you by surprise. Usually, people want to know what color their voice is. "Different types are different colors. Drizzle is hot orange. Thunderstorms are coral."

"Sounds like a beautiful world."

"Not anymore." The words slip out before you can stop yourself.

The devil tilts his head. “Oh?”

You hesitate. Shit. “Never mind,” you rush as you scramble away from the edge of the building, trying to get a footing on the slick roofing. You stand quickly, turning to climb down the fire escape and run home, away from his baby blue voice and all of the hurt. But at home there’s the tissues and the razor blades and the stained sink and suddenly you don’t fancy going home either. A streak of lightning splits the sky into two darkened halves.

You feel your heart hesitate in your chest. Rain makes steady streams down your cheeks. The thought of jumping from the roof occurs to you.

Your back is turned from the devil and you can’t hear him coming up behind you over all the rain and black. His hand lands gently on your shoulder and you flinch. “Hey,” his baby blue voice is soft, not pushy. “I understand.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard those words. Usually, people don’t really mean it. They just want to make you feel better. But there’s something in the way he says it. How his voice is like baby blankets and the ocean at dawn and the afternoon sky, and for some reason, it makes you truly believe him. And a little bit of the black fades away.

Then there’s warm water running down your face and this time it’s not the rain and maybe, just maybe, he does understand. Because why else would he be baby blue amid all the black?

Suddenly you’re falling backward but it’s not into open air, it’s into open arms. The devil wraps his arms around you, pushing away all the black as he murmurs baby blue words of comfort. And you’re sobbing and you’d be embarrassed but it’s so nice to finally have some color back that you don’t even care. He spins you around so that your cheek is pressed to his chest. The leather is cold and unfeeling but just the thought that there’s a heart beating under there somewhere makes you feel better.

“I understand,” the devil says again, and he runs his gloved hands through your tangled, dripping wet hair. You let out another sob, gasping for breath. “Shh, it’s alright,” he murmurs. “I’m here. You’re safe. Can we breathe together?”

You nod and choke out a small grunt in reply, pressing further into his chest.

“Alright. We’re going to breathe in for 3, hold for 3, and breathe out for 3, 3 times.”

He takes you through the breathing exercise with his soft baby blue voice. With each breath, you feel his chest rising and falling in time with your own. The thunder crashes around you but you ignore it. After 3 cycles, he pulls back from the hug a bit to check on you.

“Better?” he murmurs, one gloved hand coming to rest on your shoulder.

You look up into the red-tinted glass covering his eyes and tilt your head. “Yes,” you whisper.

His lips curve up ever so slightly into a sympathetic smile. “Good. I’m glad I could help.”

You look out onto the city. The black is fading away, being replaced by the coral of the rain, the mustard yellow of the subway trains, the misty grey of the wind through alleyways. You choke down another sob as the colors appear in brilliance.

“Hey now,” the devil says, rubbing your arm. “I thought you were good?”

You nod hurriedly and look back up at him. “It’s not all black anymore.” The words are barely a whisper but the devil seems to hear them anyway.

“I’m glad,” he returns with another small smile. He pulls you back into his embrace again.

You let your eyes slip closed against the rain. A crash of coral thunder invades the darkness. You smile. “Thanks, Blue.”


	6. Stop the Pain (Charles Xavier x Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> Fandom: X-Men  
> Pairing: Charles Xavier x Reader  
> Prompt: You hide in your room and clutch a pillow, listening to the abusive language your family members throw at each other. You hear your youngest sibling being physically abused again, and his screams echo throughout the house.  
> Trigger warnings: mentions of physical abuse, panic attacks, nightmares  
> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> I'm so sorry all of these are angsty. I should just rename the book "Angsty Fandom Imagines." Also I know X-Men isn't on my list, but I was on a Charles Xavier high over the weekend and I just had to write something.  
> edit: x-men is now on my list lol

**You hide in your room and clutch a pillow, listening to the abusive language your family members throw at each other. You hear your youngest sibling being physically abused again, and his screams echo throughout the house.**

Not again.

You bury your face in the pillow, sobbing quietly. You pray that your parents don’t come into your room. You can’t overpower them.

But your brother, Evan, is screaming so loud. It’s so painful. All you feel is pain.

You can feel each hit. A slap across the cheek. A kick to the back of the leg. Your knees start to throb and you know that Evan has fallen. Silent tears fall down your face as he begs wordlessly.

Your mutation is both a gift and a curse. You can feel people’s pain, especially those closest to you. It helps to establish the origin of injuries, but it’s torture when someone is being abused.

The pain blossoms across your face as another hit is delivered. The intensity differs with each pulse of pain, and you know that both your parents are ruthlessly attacking the twelve-year-old.

You have to escape. You have to leave. You try to move but you are stuck. You let out a cry as a sharp pain blooms in your abdomen, but no sound comes out.

And then…

You sit up screaming for help. The room is dark. You’re sitting in a bed, the blankets tossed to the floor.

The door suddenly bursts open and you yelp in surprise, your heart still pounding in your chest. For a moment you stare at the man in the doorframe in confusion, until it all starts coming back to you.

Charles.

The school.

You’re safe.

Tears start streaming down your cheeks as the adrenaline from your nightmare wears off, but the anxiety is still there. You clutch your chest, grabbing a fistful of your t-shirt in a vain attempt to calm down. Your breathing is ragged and quick, the sure sign of a panic attack.

“Charles,” you manage to gasp out.

The telepath hurries to your side and sits on the edge of the bed. He pulls you toward him and rubs your back soothingly as you cry into his chest. “Shh,” he whispers. “You’re alright, Anna. Calm your mind. Deep breaths.”

You attempt to breathe in and out slowly, but the exhale is interrupted by another sob. “Evan,” you wheeze.

Charles clutches you tighter. “Oh, love. I’m so sorry.”

The rest comes back to you all at once.

The screaming ceasing.

Your father bursting into your room.

Discovering your ability to channel pain and force it onto others.

Your father falling to his knees.

Your mother doing the same.

Running out the door and never looking back, not even at the mangled body of your brother on the floor.

 _Don’t think about that now,_ Charles voice is strong in your mind.

“I can’t help it,” you whimper, looking into his icy blue eyes.

 _Yes, you can,_ he assures you, meeting your gaze steadily. _Think about coming to the school. Meeting the others. Learning to control your powers. Think about how far you’ve come._

You take a deep breath and find that it’s easier now. Your head doesn’t feel quite so fuzzy, but those anxious thoughts are still there, and the nightmare continues to replay in your mind. “Evan never got to do those things,” you whisper sadly.

 Charles doesn’t respond, physically or mentally, except to run a hand through your hair in a soothing motion.

“I wish he was here.” Your voice cracks halfway through.

Charles’ voice is soft and understanding. “I know, Anna.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few more minutes, until your tears have stopped and your breathing is completely normal again. The nightmare lingers on the edge of your consciousness though, and you know that going back to sleep like this would be impossible.

“Help me, Charles.” You look into his eyes again as he raises a questioning eyebrow. “Help me sleep. Please.”

“You mean…”

You close your eyes and lean into him as an image of Evan appears in your mind again. “Make it go away, Charles. Make _him_ go away.”

Charles plants a kiss on your forehead and replies with a quiet, “Alright love.” He helps you get comfortable again, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Then he places two fingers on your temple and begins to send soothing images to your mind. Evan fades away, along with the remnants of the nightmare. Just before you drift off to sleep, Charles sends a quiet “See you in the morning.” You smile and fall asleep peacefully, no longer plagued by the nightmarish images.


	7. Reach Further (Charles Xavier x Child!Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> Fandom: X-Men  
> Pairing: Charles Xavier x Child!Reader  
> Prompt: (request) Charles X child!reader, shes a telepath like her dad. Charles is helping her control it.  
> Trigger warnings: none (cherish it, it's a rare occurrence 'round these parts)  
> *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> So first off, this is really short because 1) I wrote it on my phone 2) it's one in the morning and 3) I was having difficulty lol. But as a note, I made Xavier your adoptive father because of backstory and such. Hope that's okay! Thanks for the request!

“That's great, Anna,” the professor says gently. “Now try and reach further. You've barely scratched the surface.”

Professor Xavier was currently helping you learn to control your powers. He'd adopted you when you were four. Your biological parents had dropped you on the doorstep of The School for Gifted Youngsters, cold and dripping wet in the middle of a thunderstorm. They hadn't stayed to see if you'd be taken in, just drove off into the distance without looking back.

You could barely remember that day, being nine now, but you mostly called Professor Xavier your dad. You joked that you actually were his daughter and that's why you were a telepath as well.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, imagining the minds of the people around you. You could sense a few of your classmates next door, but everyone beyond that point was just fuzzy and incoherent noise. Then of course, there was the strong presence of your adoptive father right next to you. He was like the warm, dying embers of a fire, filling your mental space and willing you to explore.

Usually the professor didn't like other telepaths inside his head. But he figured that he could stop you if you got too close to anything sensitive or dangerous.

You tried following his request to reach deeper, searching those embers for  _ more _ than what you'd sensed before. You managed to break past a mental barrier that Xavier put up as practice and your lips curled up in a proud grin.

“Great work, Anna! That's fantastic. I think that's enough for today.” Xavier gently pushed you out of his headspace.

You snapped your eyes open to be greeted by the professor's warm smile. “Was that good?” You asked shyly.

He pulled you into a tight hug. “Absolutely, Anna. You're doing so well.” He released you and held you at arm's length. “I'm so proud of you.”

You grinned sheepishly and buried your face in his chest. He chuckled, and wrapped his arms around you again.

“Hey, dad?” You said once you'd pulled away.

“Yes, dear?”

You looked down at your hands, twiddling your thumbs nervously. “I don't want to hurt anyone again,” you murmured.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Xavier looked at you, pity clouding his eyes.

When you'd first come to the school, you'd been confused and angry about your parents leaving you. You'd had little control over your powers, and seemed to view them as a way to let off steam when you were frustrated. Needless to say, people ended up getting hurt. Nothing severe, but you still felt extremely guilty about it.

“Look at me,” the professor said gently. You met his eyes, knowing that he wouldn't judge you for your fears. “That's why we're training,” he reassured you, “to help you control your powers. So that you can feel confident and safe using them around others.”

You nodded and smiled slightly, feeling more at ease. “Okay. Thanks Dad.”

“Anytime. I'm always here for you.” He matched your smile. “Now, run off and play. But be careful please!” He called after you as you rushed out the door, a huge grin on your face.


End file.
